


Under the Mistletoe

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Mistletoe, Molly Hooper - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Regret, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Christmas, Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018, a sherlolly christmas, romantic kiss, sherlolly angst, sherlolly fluff, sherlolly kiss, sherlolly love, sweet sherlolly, under the mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 04:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17175794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, having agreed to let his mother and Mrs. Hudson host a Christmas party at 221B, quickly realizes what's missing at the party, and in his life.





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DamselInDeduction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamselInDeduction/gifts).



To say that Sherlock Holmes was opposed to the Christmas party in his flat would have been an understatement, but he had relented in the end. A combination of his mother’s steely pale gaze, John Watson’s insistence, and Mrs. Hudson’s puppy-like enthusiasm and strong-arming had resulted in him agreeing to host the party at 221B. His mother had promised that she and Mrs. Hudson would make all the arrangements, and all he really had to do was sit there.

The two women had been in the kitchen most of the morning, preparing and talking nonstop, sending his father out on errands every once in a while, and receiving the coldest looks from Sherlock whenever one of them suggested that he do something to help. He kept reminding them that this hadn’t been his idea, and he’d only agreed because they’d sworn he wouldn’t have to lift a finger. So, he sat in his favorite armchair by the fire, methodically putting rosin on his violin bow, and thought back to the visit he’d had with his sister the day before.

He always felt drained afterwards. Although he and Eurus had been growing closer and closer, communicating more through music as time passed, he still felt like he was going to battle every time he landed on Sherrinford. It always felt like he had to strengthen his mental walls, fortifying his strengths, blocking out specific parts of his life he didn’t want his sister to know about as they played together.

The biggest mental wall he had to build was around Molly. He would spend hours, days leading up to Sherrinford by systematically locking Molly away in his mind palace. Anything and everything connected to the pathologist was off limits to Eurus, and he was endlessly vigilant about protecting her from his sister, protecting her by ensuring that none of his thoughts about Molly transferred into the music he played.

 _Have you had sex_ Eurus had asked the first he’d played for her that horrendous day all those lifetimes ago. It had been terrifying to see how easily she’d heard Molly in his music, how clearly Eurus had known he’d composed that bit of music the morning after he’d spent the night with Molly, in Molly’s arms, with Molly’s taste still on his tongue, her scent on his skin. Eurus had known about his feelings for Molly long before he’d even found the fortitude to acknowledge their existence, convincing himself their intimate relationship was simply a more intimate branch of their professional relationship.

When he’d fallen in love with her, he could never pinpoint. Sherlock had only just started understanding what love was, acknowledging its utility and usefulness only after Sherrinford, after the truth about Victor and Redbeard had emerged. But he’d frozen, suddenly understanding what he had been neglecting all his life, all the feelings and emotions he’d buried with drugs and solving impossible cases. He’d known he should have gone to Molly, should have explained himself to her, explained that he’d meant it...damn him but he’d meant it...instead, he’d simply explained the phone call, skipping over the coffin, the searing pain he’d felt as he’d watched her on the security monitors, convinced she was going to do die in front of his eyes, _because_ of him.

He hadn’t told her anything beyond that, hadn’t had the strength to tell her how terrified he was to realize he was a sentient being, a man made of flesh and bone, a man with a past that colored his every breath, with a past that he’d buried so diligently. He hadn’t explained to her how broken he felt, hadn’t told her that he spent nights imagining how he’d confide in her, tell her how he mistrusted his thoughts now, how scared he was that he couldn’t trust his intuitions anymore. He’d wanted to tell her how alone he felt, how lonely and scared, and how he’d realized she was the only person he could unburden himself to because...well, she was Molly. She was the first person he thought of when he felt heartbroken, scared, confused. She was his light at the end of the tunnel. He ran to her in his darkest moments because she never turned him away.

But of course, he hadn’t told her any of that, letting their relationship fester into mere acquaintance, their only non-work-related interactions limited to their goddaughter. He’d expected Molly to fight him, to demand that they fix their relationship, that they talk about the phone call, but instead she seemed to have given up on him too, on any concept of love that could exist between them.

John was the first to show up for the party, wearing one of his ridiculous jumpers but Sherlock was too distracted by Rosie, who bounded towards him, shouting “Unca Lock!” at the top of her lungs, throwing herself in his waiting arms. He was so wrapped up in his goddaughter’s hug that he barely glanced at John’s date, too busy enjoying the shameless, unadulterated love of the little girl in his arms to think about anything else. But eventually John introduced him to Martha, an editor or something, whom he’d met through mutual friends.

Soon Mr. Chatarjee arrived, looking sheepishly at Sherlock as he’d kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, handing her a neatly wrapped box that was clearly an expensive necklace. The man was incorrigible, not seeming the least bit phased even after Sherlock had made it clear that he knew about his wife in Doncaster _and_ Islamabad. But Mrs. Hudson was happy, looking back at the man with a sparkle in her eyes and Sherlock found he couldn’t deny her that sparkle. He’d had a taste of it and what a shame it would be to deprive anyone of it.

Greg came next, with DI Hopkins on his arm and a grin as he began to pour drinks for everyone. The room was filled with warmth and familiarity with soft music lilting in the background, everyone mingling and talking, laughing and smiling, wrapped in friendship and familiarity as Sherlock remained by the window. He kept glancing at his watch, nearly praying that Mycroft would arrive soon so he wouldn’t feel so secluded from the group, but he knew better, knew Mycroft was avoiding Baker Street like the plague.

Sherlock looked around and realized everyone...had someone. His parents were together, nearly attached at the hip the way they always were, even if his father was wearing an atrocious Christmas jumper with a bowtie to match. Greg and Hopkins (Sherlock couldn’t remember her first name no matter how hard he tried. Sarah? Sweeny? Sonia? Something with S?) were nestled together. Mrs. Hudson had Mr. Chattarjee’s arm around her, and John couldn’t stop grinning at Martha. Even his goddaughter had her new puppy to keep her company, sitting on the floor by the fire with the golden retriever pup she’d named Hound at Sherlock’s insistence.

Panic gripped him as he realized he was alone, a choking sensation he couldn’t escape no matter how much he rubbed his throat. Completely, utterly alone and for the first time, he didn’t want to be, saw no utility in it, so no productivity in being... _alone_.

He wanted to grab his coat and run out, find Wiggins and forget that he existed completely. No one would miss him, he knew that, and it broke his newly discovered heart to know how much he wanted to be missed, acknowledged.

When he heard Molly’s familiar footsteps coming up the stairs, it felt as if bats had released in his stomach, breathing life, animation into him, breaking the mold of ice he’d had surrounding him, shattering the fog he’d been walking in. She looked so beautiful, she turned the bats into butterflies and he found himself standing up for a better look as she walked through the door, carrying two big gift bags full of presents.

She had a black peacoat on but underneath, he could see the bright red dress that ended above her knees, hugging her every curve, the neckline just low enough to entice a glimpse of her cleavage, her hair swept up from her face in a rather stylish do with intricate diamond earrings dripping down her delicate throat. Her make-up was subtle, the red of her lips deep and inviting her, eyes bright and sparkling as she accepted the hugs and kisses from those around her, smiling and laughing.

She’d come back.

She’d come back...to him. For him.

The dress. The hairdo. The makeup. Those beautifully stained lips...she was even wearing the perfume he loved tasting on her skin, the perfume that he loved on his sheets, on his skin.

This was her Christmas present to him, it had to be.

All the women at the party were dressed casually and they were there with their lovers. Molly was dressed like a woman on a mission, a woman who was determined to no longer remain single, a woman who wanted a relationship. She was there to take him back, to let him apologize to her, crawl to her on his hands and knees if he had to, to give him... _them_...a chance. To keep him company, to end the insomnia and endless torment of his thoughts.

“What will you drink then, Molly? Red? White?” Greg asked, the designated bartender it seemed.

“Hello darling!” she smiled at Rosie, who’d finally broken through the ring of adults around her godmother to hug her. Sherlock couldn’t help the appreciative smile as he watched her carefully kneel to hug Rosie against her, “no drink for me thanks,” she answered Greg, “I only came to drop off the presents, I have plans.”

John said what Sherlock was screaming in his mind, “you do?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she pressed a kiss to Rosie’s forehead and carefully stood up, “but Rosie and I still have our date for tomorrow.”

And with that, after barely 10 minutes, she was going back down the stairs.

She didn’t even glance at him, didn’t speak to him, didn’t acknowledge him...

The world seemed to crash around him and left him breathless, bereft of life, bereft of Molly. Sherlock didn’t know what was going through his own mind, couldn’t decipher his own thoughts as he watched her carefully go down the stairs, her black velvet pumps making a distinct sound as she made her way to the landing and the second set of stairs. She seemed to have taken everything with her as Sherlock realized that Molly...she was done with him.

John appeared in front of him, “go after her, you clot!”

It seemed to have been what Sherlock was waiting for, nearly bowling over his mother as he ran after Molly, barely catching up to her when she reached for the door. “Wait,” he flew over the last few steps, “Molly wait.”

Surprise flared in her eyes as she looked up at him, “yes?” she asked, and he realized the expectation in her eyes was gone. She’d always looked at him with hope and now...it was with forced patience. She looked at him like someone irritated that they were being kept, that she was going to be late.

Molly’s love and affection had made him feel human. Somehow, her belief in him had made him who he was. He was smart because Molly thought he was smart. He was clever because she thought he was clever. He had potential because she thought he had potential. There was hope because she had hope...Now, he was nothing because he’d lost her, lost Molly.

Even when she’d been engaged, there had been hope in her eyes when she looked at him but there was nothing now. “You can’t leave,” he breathed, lost for words.

“Why?” she asked with a frown, wrapping her coat tighter around her.

“Because--” he took a deep breath. Because what?

He realized he’d stayed silent for a long time because Molly rolled her eyes, “I’m going to be late Sherlock.”

She moved to open the door but he put his hand on it, using his height to his advantage to keep the door closed, “just--just give me a minute,” he nearly growled, growing frustrated as the words seemed to fly away from him or lodged themselves in his throat, choking him.

The indifference melted from her eyes and the corner of her mouth lifted in a sad, lopsided smile, “I gave you ten years,” she said softly.

Sherlock made a sound he didn’t recognize, as if someone had punched him in the stomach, and he was aware of his mouth opening and closing like a helpless fish as he searched for those damned words. Logic had no place here, and the emotions he was feeling had never had names before. He had no vocabulary for this, the vernacular foreign and unfamiliar to him. “I’m so lost,” he finally breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, “I can’t seem to find anything to say, I don’t even understand what I'm trying to say. Usually-- I would come to you and ask you to tell me what I'm feeling,” he shook his head, “you were always my compass, my dictionary, the human half of me and – and now that I want to be human, the nomenclature escapes me.”

She watched him with steady brown eyes, the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, “just-- say what’s on your mind. You don’t have to make it pretty for my sake.”

“It’s beyond words or thoughts, it’s primal,” he growled frustrated, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration, half-mad, half-hoping someone had written the perfect words on Mrs. Hudson’s ceiling. Instead, he saw the mistletoe that was hung over the doorway, directly above her head, and he had to laugh as the butterflies returned, “you’re all for Christmas traditions and symbols, right Molly?”

Frowning at the sudden change in conversation, she nodded slowly, “I guess?”

“Good,” he smiled, taking great pleasure in the shock that glowed in her eyes as he bent down towards her, letting her see the kiss as he dropped his eyes to her lips, licking his own in anticipation as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to his chest as he kissed her slowly. Purposefully he rubbed his lips across hers before touching his tongue to her lips, grinning when she opened for him. The tension in her body melted away suddenly as she gripped the lapels of his jacket, drawing him closer to her as she kissed him back fervently.

Their breath mingled, their bodies becoming one as they held each other tightly, moaning slightly and without meaning to. Soon the urgency melted away from them and they simply became two people kissing, tasting, relishing each other under the mistletoe, two lives that had finally found their way to merge. He felt her smile against his mouth as he changed the angle of their kiss, felt her pleasure as she moved her arms to wrap them around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed her chest to his.

Breathless, he pulled away from her, pressing his forehead against hers and smiled at the lost, hazed look in her eyes, at the fact that she was holding him as tightly as he held her, “I meant it,” his voice was soft, cracking with whatever he couldn’t name, “that call... _Molly..._ I meant it.”

Smiling, Molly nodded as she twirled his hair around her fingers, “I know,” she murmured, “I just never thought you’d admit it.”

He kissed her again, breathing her into his lungs, letting her infect him with her sweetness, with all that she was, “it’s a Christmas miracle,” he laughed softly against her lips.

Molly grinned at him, hope and sweetness returning to her brown eyes, “who knew.”

Kissing her became second nature, a pleasure he didn’t know how he’d lived without for so long, tasting her slowly and sorely tempted to press her against the door and bury himself in her warmth right then. But he realized he preferred this, these slow kisses, the relaxed way she gave herself to him without a sense of urgency, as if she knew he wouldn’t change his mind now, secure in the knowledge that he belonged to her forever. “You should call the poor bloke and tell him you’re not going.”

She laughed against his mouth, pulling back slightly, "not a bloke, actually, just a few female coworkers that won’t miss me.”

“This is the second Christmas you’ve fooled me,” he grinned, “but then, I've never been able to read you Molly. You...you always surprise me, always keep me guessing.”

Her smile was radiant as she kissed him again, holding tightly to him as he pressed himself to her warmth, as he memorized the texture of her soft lips, the taste of her, the smell of her as she clung to him, the way she sighed against his mouth when he deepened their kiss, “my Molly,” he murmured, making her smile.

From upstairs, he could hear strains of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” float down, and he began to sway to the song with his Molly in his arms, dancing with his one and only.

And all was right in Sherlock’s world.


End file.
